Autumn Sun

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens.

You feel good, and then you fall asleep.

I'm Catherine Nicolai.

I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.

Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

We give to a different charity each week,

and this week we are giving to Four Paws International.

Their vision is a world where humans treat animals with respect,

empathy, and understanding. Learn more in our show notes.
Villagers, we have something very special and very cozy coming your way next week. It's a partnership with a brand who understands the importance of mindfulness and taking care of yourself.
I've fallen in love with their products and use them myself to feel grounded and calm, and I can't wait to share what we've worked on together. Stay tuned to our social channels and right here on all of our shows for the exciting launch of your future favorite soothing thing.
Now, I have a tried and true method for helping you sleep better tonight and also build consistently better sleep over time. We need to engage your brain just enough.
We want it to stay in one place, to quit its wandering ways for a bit. And the story is the way to do that.
Just by listening, we'll shift your brain into its task-positive mode,

and that will make falling asleep easier, probably instant.

Be patient if you are new to this.

It is a form of brain training and will improve with regular use.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, turn a story on, and you'll drop right back off.
Our story tonight is called Autumn Sun, and it's a story about a day at Weathervane Farm, treating the animals to autumnal enrichment. It's also about light shifting through orange and red leaves, the pillowy soil of a well-tilled garden, the last pumpkins picked from their vines, and the simple joy of watching kids play.
Now, slide down into your sheets, switch off your light, and take a moment to feel your whole body relaxing into the bed. The day is done.
Whatever you did with it, it was enough. Truly, you did enough today.

All is well.

Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth.

Again, breathe in

and release. Good.
Autumn Sun. The autumn was lovely and lasting this year.
So many trees were still full of bright leaves, and many others had only begun to turn. I hoped it would mean we would have a month or more yet to enjoy it.
When the skies were so blue, it felt like Mother Nature was clearing away the clouds to let the sun shine brightly on the leaves, reminding us to look and to marvel.

I certainly did.

The way the sun filtered through the branches.

It reminded me of the sparkle of light on a lake on a clear day.

It dazzled me, and I looked to be dazzled at least once a day. With all this sunlight, even the days that started off chilly, warmed in the afternoon, and when I was working out in the barn or in the meadow, I was often down to my t-shirt and overalls after lunch.
The animals were enjoying this fall as much, if not more, than I was. the ducks and geese splashed and floated in the pond all day, or slept in rows on the grassy banks.
Did you know ducks can snore? I sure knew it. The cows, we had a small herd of rescues now, sunbathed and chewed the golden days away, watching the goats in the next paddock over as they jumped off the donated kids' playground equipment, and occasionally got their heads stuck in bales of hay or fence posts.
The goats were voted most likely to cause trouble when no one is looking, though they still caused plenty when we were. We also had a few pigs, a stable full of the sweetest donkeys you've ever met, and a few odds and ends, a lone llama, two emus who gave the goats a run for their money, sometimes literally.
A miniature horse. Barn cats.
Three turkeys. And slightly more dogs than strictly made sense.

But everyone got food and fresh water,

saw the doctor regularly,

had clean stalls or beds to settle in at night,

and got a lot of love and affection.

We'd not set out to be an animal sanctuary.

It had sort of crept up on us,

but we wouldn't have it any other way.

We had a small army of volunteers

who helped us care for the critter crew every day. And they were as much our family now as the animals were.
In fact, some came here for Thanksgiving. We would add all the leaves to the dining room table and have a big potluck and share some special treats with the animals.
Today, I was preparing some of those treats, in fact, or picking them, rather.

I'd grown a giant pumpkin patch on the far side of the barn

behind the farmhouse,

and we still had a few dozen

sitting on their vines.

I took my trusty wheelbarrow

and rolled it through the dry grass and rolled it through the dry grass. Gosh, it smelled so good out today.
That sweet hay scent of the grass at the end of its life. The leaves baking in the sun.
I filled my lungs with it

as I turned toward the patch and parked my barrow by the edge of the garden. It is a specific sense memory that I have that kicks in each time I step onto the well-tilled soil of walking through my grandfather's garden as a child.
His garden soil was almost pillowy, and each step held a moment of sinking and a moment of bounce as my foot lifted for the next. I smiled proud to have inherited

his green thumb

and soil aeration skills.

I took some snippers from the roomy chest pocket on my overalls and began to snip away pumpkins from their prickly stems.

I balanced them as best as I could in the wagon,

the biggest on the bottom and the smaller ones on the top,

till it was about as full as I thought I could manage on the uneven ground.

As I wheeled it back across the barnyard toward the goat's play area,

I noticed the shadow the weather vane made on the bare earth.

There was almost no wind today, so it was still, and the shape of the crane and arrows

that sat up on the roof ridge was repeated in a slight blur

at my feet.

One of our dogs was stretched out in the shadow.

He was a husky,

and I could tell he was eager for the first

snow to come,

for colder days to set in.

Frigo was his name,

and he was the kind of dog

that would lay on the last patch of ice in the yard

as spring came on.

By now, he'd had enough of the warm weather, and was taking refuge in this one shady spot in the open yard. I stopped to give him a pat and promise him that the winter weather would come soon.
Like most huskies, he liked to talk, and even more, to talk back, so he had a few things to say about that. Oh, Frigo, I said with sympathy as I reached for the handles of the barrow and started off again.
His whiny howls were setting off George the donkey, who brayed back from his yard. Oh, please, I chuckled invitingly.
Let's all express ourselves. Where's the rooster? Sonny? I spotted him packing around the side of the coop.
He was an older gentleman who I think could barely see, but he knew his name and let out a squeaky crow. Need some oil on those gears, my friend, I mumbled as I maneuvered my load of pumpkins around to the gate of the goat's yard.

I needed to get in without all of them getting out,

so I picked up one of the smaller pumpkins and held it up to get their attention.

They watched me, several of them still chewing on hay or grass, and I called out to them about the many virtues of pumpkins, how delicious they were, how fun they were to step on and headbutt. I did a couple fake-out throws, pretending to toss it into one corner or another, and they did not react like the dogs, who would have been running back and forth, trying to find the disappearing pumpkins.

The goats just watched me,

and I started to lose confidence that my plan was going to work.

Here goes nothing, I mumbled,

as I tossed the gourd for real now,

as far out to the back of their yard as I could manage. It somehow landed on top of one of their play structures.
They watched it wobble at the top edge of a slide, turning their heads as if looking first with one eye and then with the other.

Finally, it toppled

and slid squeakily down the slant,

and as it hit the ground below,

lovely and overripe as it was,

it broke open.

The goats lost their minds at this.

They ran over.

Some of the younger ones ran through the seeds and pumpkin flesh.

Others climbed up to slide down over it.

Thank you. ran through the seeds and pumpkin flesh.
Others climbed up to slide down over it. It was my cue to open their gate and rush in with the rest quickly closing it behind me.
I started tossing the pumpkins in all different directions. Some cracked as they came down, and others bounced, and I knew the kids would be playing all afternoon with these new toys.
I backed out as I'd come in, careful not to step on a passing cat or trip over the llama asleep in the sun. My life was a little silly here on Weathervane Farm, but I loved it, and I think they all did too.
Autumn Sun The autumn was lovely and lasting this year. So many trees were still full of bright leaves, and many others had only begun to turn.
I hoped it would mean we would have a month or more yet to enjoy it. When the skies were so blue,

it felt like Mother Nature was clearing away the clouds

to let the sun shine brightly on the leaves,

reminding us

to look and to marvel.

I certainly did.

The way the sun filtered through the branches reminded me of the sparkle of light on a lake on a clear day. It dazzled me, and I looked to be dazzled at least once a day.
With all this sunlight, even the days that started off chilly, warmed in the afternoon.

And when I was working out in the barn or in the meadow, I was often down to my t-shirt and overalls after lunch.

The animals were enjoying this fall as much, if not more, than I was.

The ducks and geese splashed and floated in the pond all day, or slept in rows on the grassy banks. Did you know ducks can snore? Phew, I sure knew it.

The cows, we had a small herd of rescues now, sunbathed and chewed the golden days away, watching the goats in the next paddock over as they jumped off the donated kids' playground equipment and occasionally got their heads stuck in bales of hay or fence posts.

They were voted most likely to cause trouble when no one is looking, though they also caused plenty when we were. we also had a few pigs a stable

full of the sweetest donkeys you've ever met, and a few odds and ends, a lone llama, two emus who gave the goats a run for their money, sometimes literally, a miniature horse, barn cats, three turkeys, and slightly more dogs than strictly made sense.

But everyone got food and fresh water,

saw the doctor regularly,

had clean stalls or beds to settle in at night,

and a lot of love and affection.

We'd not set out to be an animal sanctuary.

It had sort of crept up on us,

but we wouldn't have it any other way. We had a small army of volunteers who helped us care for the critter crew every day.
and they were as much our family now

as the animals were. In fact, some came here for Thanksgiving.
We would add all the leaves to the dining room table and have a big potluck and share some special treats with the animals. Today I was preparing some of those treats, in fact, or picking them, rather.
I'd grown a giant pumpkin patch on the far side of the barn, behind the farmhouse, and we still had a few dozen sitting on their vines.

I took my trusty wheelbarrow and rolled it through the dry grass.

Gosh, it smelled so good out today.

The sweet hay scent of the grass

at the end of its life.

The leaves baking in the sun. I filled my lungs with it as I turned toward the patch, parked my barrow by the edge of the garden.

It is a specific sense memory I have that still kicks in each time

I step onto the well-tilled soil

of walking through my grandfather's garden as a child. His garden's soil was almost pillowy, and each step held a moment of sinking and a moment of bounce as my foot lifted for the next.

I smiled, proud to have inherited his green thumb and soil aeration skills.

I took some snippers from the roomy chest pocket on my overalls and began to snip away pumpkins

from their prickly stems. I balanced them as best I could in the wagon, the biggest on the bottom and the smaller ones on the top till it was about as full as I thought I could manage

on the uneven ground.

As I wheeled it back across the barnyard

toward the goat's play area, I noticed the shadow the weather vane made on the bare earth. there was almost no wind today

so it was still

and the shape of the crane and arrows that sat up on the roof ridge was repeated in a slight blur at my feet. one of our dogs was stretched out in the shadow

he was a husky, and I could tell he was eager for the first snow to come, for colder days to set in. Frigo was his name, and he was the kind of dog that would lay on the last patch of ice in the yard as spring came on.
By now, he'd had enough of the warm weather, and was taking refuge in this one shady spot

in the open yard.

I stopped to give him a pat and promise him that the winter would come soon. Like most huskies, he liked to talk, and even more, to talk back.
So he had a few things to say about that.

Oh, Frigo, I said with sympathy as I reached for the handles of the wheelbarrow and started off again.

His whiny howls

were setting off

George the donkey

who brayed back

from his yard.

Oh,

please,

I chuckled

invitingly.

Let's

all express ourselves.

Where's the rooster? Sunny. I spotted him pecking around the side of the coop.
He was an older gentleman who I think could barely see, but he knew his name and let out a squeaky crow. Need some oil on those gears, my friend.
I mumbled as I maneuvered my load of pumpkins around to the gate of the goat's yard.

I needed to get in without all of them getting out.

So I picked up another one of the smaller pumpkins and held it up to get their attention.

They watched me,

several of them still chewing on hay and grass,

and I called out to them about the many virtues of pumpkins,

how delicious they were, how fun they were to step on and headbutt.

I did a couple fake-out throws, pretending to toss it into one corner or another.

And they did not react like the dogs would have, who would have been running back and forth, trying to find disappearing pumpkins. The goats just watched me, and I started to lose confidence that my plan was going to work.
Here goes nothing, I mumbled,

as I tossed the gourd for real now,

as far out to the back of their yard

as I could manage.

It somehow landed on the top of one of their play structures. They watched it wobble at the edge of a slide, turning their heads as if looking first with one eye, then with the other.

Finally, it toppled

and slid squeakily down the slant,

and as it hit the ground,

lovely and overripe as it was,

it broke open.

The goats lost their minds at this.

They ran over.

Some of the younger ones ran through the seeds and pumpkin flesh. Others climbed up to slide down over it.
It was my cue to open their gate and rush in with the rest, quickly closing it behind me. I started tossing the pumpkins in all different directions.
Some cracked as they came down, and others bounced, and I knew the kids would be playing

all afternoon with these new toys.

I backed out as I'd come in,

careful not to step on a passing cat

or trip over the llama asleep in the sun.

My life was a little silly

here on Weathervane Farm,

but I loved it,

and I think they all did too.

Sweet dreams.